


Day 12: Ugly Christmas Jumpers

by ConsultingPurplePants



Series: 25 Days of Fic-Mas (originally posted to tumblr) [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, But Not Much, Christmas Jumpers, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5410514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock loses a bet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 12: Ugly Christmas Jumpers

**Author's Note:**

> Woo still managing to be on time somehow. This is a miracle.

When John comes home from the clinic, he smells something burning even before he enters the flat. When he rushes into the kitchen, searching frantically for the source, all he finds is Sherlock covered in tomato sauce, looking forlornly at a pot. John takes a moment to appreciate the sight before him, then grins widely, feeling triumph swell in his chest. He gives Sherlock an excited peck on the lips, which Sherlock reluctantly returns, before letting himself bask in his victory.

“I knew it! I can’t believe I finally managed to win a bet against you!” He punches the air, feeling giddier than he has in years, then bends himself to the task of trying to find something incredibly embarrassing for Sherlock to do.

The bet had been a rather simple one; Sherlock had been mocking John’s cooking for the umpteenth time since John had returned to Baker Street, and John had finally lost his patience. Sherlock kept insisting that cooking was “simply chemistry, John, it’s childishly easy,” so John had bet him he would be unable to cook dinner for a week. Sherlock had agreed with a haughty expression, and they had shaken on it. The winner would have to choose something embarrassing for the loser to do, and now John was having a field day trying to figure out which of his multitude of ideas was the perfect one.

***

A few hours of clean up later (John isn’t _completely_ heartless), John sits Sherlock down on the sofa to announce his punishment. Sherlock sags into the cushions, looking resigned, and John decides he can’t wait any longer.

“You have to wear my ‘ugly’--” he raises his fingers to make air quotes, “Christmas jumpers for a week.”

While John was expecting a horrified reaction (it was meant to be embarrassing, after all), he was not expecting anything so strong as the one he receives. Sherlock’s head shoots up from where it was sagging into his chest and he looks like he has just learned that all the crimes in London have been solved and there won’t be any more. John tries to soften the blow.

“Oh, come on, Sherlock, they’re clean! I haven’t even worn them yet, we’re not close enough to Christmas. And I won’t mind if you stretch them out a bit,” he laughs.

Sherlock is looking increasingly horrified instead of reassured, and John starts to wonder if there’s anything Sherlock has neglected to tell him. Something along the lines of, “John, I boiled them all in acid last week,” or “John, I’ve been using them to store organs in.”

He doesn’t say either of these things (or any other variation of them), so John hesitantly goes on with his plan. A lot of his winter clothing is being stored in his old bedroom, so now’s as good a time as any to get it all down when he goes to get the Christmas sweaters. He starts to head for the stairs, and that’s when Sherlock decides to look less like a guppy and more like a tornado.

“NO!” He leaps from the sofa and grabs John’s arm.

“...Sherlock? Why not? I won fair and square, here.” John is slowly starting to suspect that there is in fact something else going on, here.

“I just...” Sherlock looks like he’s frantically searching his mind palace for excuses, “Don’t... like Christmas jumpers?” He winces, as though even he can see how feeble that one was.

John continues walking up the stairs, dragging a panicky detective behind him.

“Sherlock they’re not even that ugly. You even admitted you thought I looked nice in them!” John is starting to get irritated. Sherlock criticizes his clothes all the time, but this is getting a little extreme.

“Um.. They are! They’re hideous! I’ll... accidentally get acid all over them. Or something worse! Blood! Pus! Mucus! Brains!” Sherlock’s desperation is plainly written on his face, and now John is determined to get to the bottom of this.

He drags Sherlock into the room and starts to look through the boxes he’d packed what seems like an eternity ago. Mary had been breathing down his neck, not even remotely surprised he was leaving, not after she’d told him the baby wasn’t his. He had taken all of his belongings and had been gradually unpacking as necessary, hating that the boxes were a reminder of all the time he’d wasted when he could have been with Sherlock.

He pulls open the nearest one and starts digging through it. Many sweaters, his winter coat, woolly socks, gloves, a hat... It looks like most of his winter things are in this one, but his Christmas jumpers are nowhere to be seen. Sherlock has given up on pulling on his arm and now appears to be trying to camouflage himself into the wall. John ignores him and pulls another two boxes towards him.

Old picture frames, clothes he’d wanted to donate to charity, a few orphaned socks, some books he’d also wanted to donate to charity, a few medical journals that were outdated but that he was hesitant to part with, and a shirt he’d been looking for for weeks which now looked like it had been set on fire. He holds it up and turns to Sherlock, who shrinks further into the darkest corner of the room, and keeps searching.

Half an hour later, he’s looked through all the boxes (there weren’t that many, most of the things in his old flat had been Mary’s) and the Christmas jumpers seem to have vanished into thin air. He sits back on his heels and starts to think, which is when he realizes he can’t even remember if he’d packed them when he’d left Baker Street to return to Mary’s last Christmas. He knows he’d worn them, he always wears them in the week or so leading up to Christmas, but he hadn’t washed them before going to Sherlock’s parents’ house so he’d worn something else. Which meant that they were all in his hamper before they went to Sherlock’s parents’... and weren’t there when he got back. He turns suspiciously to Sherlock, who has (to his credit) actually managed to nearly disappear into the back corner behind the door.

“Sherlock... did I leave my jumpers here before I left?” He knows that Sherlock knows exactly what he’s talking about. There’s a tiny, tentative nod from the lump that must be Sherlock’s head in the dark.

“Did you destroy them while I was gone, then?” He can kind of understand if he did, but he really did love those jumpers. He squints at the corner behind the door, and manages to make out a head shake.

“Sherlock, this is getting ridiculous. Where are my jumpers?” There’s another head shake, this one more forceful. John gets up and yanks the door away from Sherlock, ruining his attempt at becoming one with the corner.

“You haven’t destroyed them, and I left them here. So what did you do with them?” Sherlock gives him a look verging on terror, so John sighs and gentles his approach. “Sherlock, love, you know you can tell me anything,” he gives him a little peck on the cheek and Sherlock seems to deflate even more, “I won’t be angry. I mean, if you destroyed them, I would appreciate it if you replaced them. But I won’t be angry.”

Sherlock mutters something, then drops his gaze. John leans closer. “What was that, love?”

He is rewarded with a tiny whisper of, “In the bedroom.” And Sherlock drags him downstairs.

***

John looks down at the box in his hands, awestruck. They had come downstairs an hour ago, and Sherlock had reached under the bed (much too far for John to reach, he notes) and pulled out this box. Then he had fled to the kitchen under the pretext of having a delicate experiment running, and even though John knew he had no such thing, he let him go.

He still can’t believe what’s in the box. There are a couple of pictures of him in the army, which he hadn’t realized he’d lost, as well as his dog tags, which he’d accepted as lost ages ago. There were three orphaned socks that matched some of the ones from the box upstairs (he’d have to inquire about that later), but the oddest thing in the box was his Christmas jumpers. He’d taken one out to see if it had been damaged in any way, and the first thing he’d noticed was that it smelled like Sherlock. Now that he was perfectly acquainted with Sherlock’s unique blend of chemicals, good quality fabric and _Sherlock_ , he could identify it anywhere, including his own Christmas jumpers. Which, as far as he was concerned, Sherlock had never worn, and which should still smell like himself, since he hadn’t washed them.

Now though, as he smells each one (while fully realizing how weird this must look from the outside), he realizes that each one smells like Sherlock. As if he’d worn all of them while John was gone. Which, John is starting to realize, probably isn’t so far from the truth. A few of them are wrinkled differently, as though they’d been crumpled in someone’s arms rather than worn, and John starts to piece together what happened as his heart literally starts to ache.

John had left Sherlock last Christmas, leaving behind only a few forgotten items. Sherlock had apparently found these items and kept them in a box under his bed. He must have also found the jumpers in John’s hamper (they have to go through a special cycle, so they were the only things left inside; John hates to think about what Sherlock would’ve done with his pants), and then he must have... worn them? Slept with them? Knowing Sherlock, he’d probably tried to keep each one smelling like John until his own essence had overpowered John’s, and John finds he can’t breathe. He’d been gone for two months, and it had killed him, but he hadn’t realized how much it had hurt Sherlock, as well. He picks up the most stretched out jumper and walks out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Sherlock is sitting at the microscope, looking very concentrated, but John can clearly see that there’s no slide on the stage. He’s nearly vibrating with tension. John places the jumper gently on the table in front of him and hugs him from behind.

Sherlock eyes the jumper warily, and John gently strokes his back. “Sherlock, did you wear these?”

Sherlock sighs, giving in, and the words come tumbling out. “Yes. I wore them, I used them as pillows, and I smelled them on a regular basis.” He looks like he’s bracing himself for a blow.

John feels his heart break. He squeezes Sherlock tighter against him. “I’m so sorry I left, Sherlock. I always knew it was a bad decision, but to have hurt you like this... I’m so sorry, love.”

Sherlock looks surprised, as though he were expecting a different reaction. He turns so that they’re facing each other properly, and looks like he’s trying to tread carefully when he asks, “So you’re not leaving?”

John crushes Sherlock to himself, winding his fingers through his hair as he replies, “Never again, Sherlock. I’m never leaving you again.”

Sherlock seems to collapse with relief, and his arms come up to hold John, and they stay like that, until John whispers, a smile in his voice, “Besides, I still have to come up with something embarrassing for you to do.”


End file.
